


What does it matter?

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:57:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barbrey loses her maidenhead to Brandon Stark in the Ryswell Godswood.</p><p>Written for Porn Battle XIII</p>
            </blockquote>





	What does it matter?

They stand in the Godswood, a parody of chastity, Barbrey’s hands clasped in those of her companion’s as they stand reverently before the woeful expression of the heart tree. She imagines for a moment that this is how their wedding, if there is to be such a union, will play out, and although she will never voice that sentiment to Brandon, knowing that it will shatter a preciously stolen moment with his sardonic laughter, she presses it to herself. _It is a marriage of sorts_ , Barbrey thinks as the silence weighs upon them both, for she is a maid and although he does not know that she will bequeath to him in this sacred space her most precious offering, it will give these minutes, nay even seconds, a significance beyond a clandestine fumbling, an adolescent groping. 

But she doesn’t have time to dwell on the more noble aspects, for Brandon’s hands are busy unlacing the front of her gown, and his nimble fingers, hot to the touch, are sliding underneath the flimsy fabric, exploring her breasts, unbound tonight, for she has planned well. Barbrey stands there, trying to fix in her mind every sensation, every subtle gesture that he makes, and as a finger teases a nipple, circling it slowly, tapping it gently, then firmly, as it stiffens, she realizes that such intellectual pursuits are inappropriate. 

It’s the body, the flesh, the coupling that she must concentrate upon, and not the silly fripperies that would be better left to a salacious novel of lords and ladies. 

When Brandon’s hands grasp her, each filled with her maiden’s flesh, she leans forward, meeting his lips with her own, tentatively bringing her hands to his hair, brushing through it, wandering to the back of his neck, and down to his shoulders, where she grasps him, pulling him closer. He protests, as the nearness makes his task, that of stripping her of her silks, near impossible, and when he takes hold of her waist, gripping her roughly, Barbrey yields, understanding that she must for once, give that precious inch to someone else. 

It might be worth it this time, in the end.

She feels rough bark against her naked back as he slides the flimsy gown from her figure, and she steps out of the fabric that puddles at her ankles, kicking it away. Barbrey smirks then, deciding that Brandon must complement her, and her nervous fingers take hold of his laces, loosening them, and teasingly brushing against the hardness that has begun to swell against his breeches. She laughs softly, more of a chuckle, as her touch becomes more secure, and when he groans from the torment, she tugs the garment open and clumsily grasps his stiffening cock, marveling at it with her maiden’s wonder, yet feeling a cynical twinge. 

_Is that all there is?_ she wonders. _This is what they all swoon for?_ And the chuckle becomes a laugh, which, while not unkind, inflames her companion. 

“I do not see what is so amusing, Lady Barbrey,” he says, voice tight, as she’s still teasing him as best she knows how. 

She bites her lip, contrite. “There is nothing amusing,” she replies, but her voice has an edge to it. “But why are we standing here like fools when time is so short?” 

He nods, kissing her again, but this time she struggles for breath and when she has her bearings, she fights back a thousand-fold, teeth on his lower lip, nipping at the soft flesh of his neck. When he grabs her waist again, she’s shoved against the tree, its rough surface marring the smooth flesh of her back. She loses her grip on Brandon, hands clutching his shoulders in a death-grip to merely keep her balance, and when he enters her, it’s a sharp sting that causes her to cry out, both from relief and pain, as he pierces her maidenhead, as the rhythm of their coupling scrapes her bare skin against the gnarled trunk. 

Her thighs tremble, muscles taxed from the awkward position, and when she slides to the ground, skirts around her waist, Brandon follows her, still keeping the rhythm of their lovemaking. It’s damp yet soft amid the moss and mud, and while she’s pleased by their closeness, he finishes before Barbrey can ever think of coming, spending his seed over her belly and thighs, and it mingles with her maiden’s blood. Her body is sticky with both, and when they part, both gasping, panting, she does her best to wipe it clean with her ruined skirts, although efforts are futile at best. 

Brandon is still lying on her, his breath hot in her ear as he whispers her name. 

“Oh, Barbrey,” he says, and it’s lovely, or at least she’ll make it so. 

“Brandon,” she returns, and they are both quiet for a while, the only sound that of the breeze through the leaves in the grove. 

“We fell riding,” she says abruptly, sarcastically. “You were a perfect gentleman, risking yourself so to free me from the mire.” 

Brandon catches her meaning, although Rodrik Ryswell will likely not care about the state of his younger daughter’s wardrobe. His mind lights on advantage, position, grasping at straws that aren’t there most of the time. “I was damned gallant.” He kisses her, this time softly, on her lips, then her forehead, as he rises, brushing leaves and muck from his clothing. 

Barbrey, grasping his hand, is pulled to her feet. “A knight from the songs, come to life before me.” 

They laugh as they make their way, stiff-bodied and dripping, to the holdfast, and when he parts, still sodden, he turns on his horse, just before he is out of sight, and waves broadly. Barbrey, recalling their jest, waves a handkerchief, mud-splattered, as though it were her lady’s favor. 

That night, frustrated, she will bring forth his face as she slides a hand between legs scrubbed clean, and she will embroider the evening in her mind, as if it were complete. As if she’d felt this dim warmth while he lay on top of her. She won’t quite remember things as they were, but what does that matter?


End file.
